


One Step At a Time

by Dragomir



Series: Stocks [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (but not really), Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One step. He can do this. One step, and he'll be on the battlements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step At a Time

**Author's Note:**

> So, pretty much everyone wanted a sequel to [Stocks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3690687) and, after much procrastination, I present the first part of the sequels. Yes, there is more than one.

Step. Step. Careful, quiet. Measure each one. Head held high. Step. Two. Three—on the battlements now. Deep breath. Inhale. Hold it. Hold it. Let it out slowly. Turn. Step. _Stop_. Breathe again. On the battlements. He can do this. No one will come near the tower Bull lives in. He is safe up here.

Dorian rests his hands on the battlements and looks towards the horizon. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t. Don’t. A quick look. Draw back sharply, fall. Sob. Breath hitches in chest. Shield up. Glimmer. Glimmer. A shield. He has his magic. Hand on his throat. His hand. No collar. Feel. No. No leather. Trail hand down. Shirt. Loose collar, soft material. His. His clothing. Un-collared, clothed. He is _safe_. Breath stutters in chest, breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Careful.

Stand. Dorian pushes himself up with the wall and dispels his shield with a flick of his wrist. Step. Step. Measure them. Careful. He winces as abused muscles pull. His body aches. Step. Measure each one. Step. Up at the battlements again. Take a deep breath, don’t look at the courtyard. If you don’t look, the courtyard isn’t there. Look to the horizon. The sun is glittering off the snowcapped peaks. Smile. Force a smile. Everything is fine.

Everything is not fine.

_Get that dumb bitch up in the stocks, damn you!_

_No, please, Maker no, I pro-hand crashing into his mouth. Please, Maker, don’—slapping his buttocks; hand in a heavy gauntlet. Oh Make—two ringing blows against his ears. Mak—stunning blow to his face again._

Dorian shudders. Hands clench on the top of the ramparts until the knuckles turn white. Breath stuttering in his chest. He can’t. He can’t. He promised Bull he would take a walk, but he _can’t_. Turn. Prepare to flee. One foot up, preparing to start walking. Measure each step. _Cullen_.

Cullen coming up to the ramparts. Hideous fur coat on his shoulders. No sword. Hands tucked behind his back. Bland smile. Draw back. Draw back. Breath catching in his chest. _Were you there? Did you watch? Maker, please, don’t be up here_. Dorian’s fingers tighten on the stone and on his shirt. Don’t flinch. Don’t fight. It’s worse when you fight them. Bland smile. Eyes light up. Breathe. Hitch. Stuttering in chest. Panic. Blood begins racing. Hands clammy. Dorian feels nauseous.

“Dorian. You’re awake.” A wide smile, Cullen’s eyes lighting up; he’s happy.

Icy fingers clawing at his throat. Stand stock still. Don’t move. Nausea. If you move, they think you’re going to fight. _A riding crop slashes down across his back until he sobs and writhes. Please, no, please stop please, I won’t fight you!_ He flinches when he hears Cullen’s boots on the stones. Oh Maker, please, not…not here. Not Cullen.

Hand brushes against his cheek. Dorian _screams_.

“Oh Maker, Dorian. I’m so sorry!” Choked words. Footsteps retreating. Dorian huddles on the ground, arms held protectively over his head. Don’t fight. Don’t react. They’ll lose interest soon. No. Please. No. Please. Please. Maker, please, let it stop. Footsteps nearby. Oh Maker. Not again. Not another one. Not another soldier, please, Maker. Not again. Not another one.

Shaking. Can’t stop. Nausea overwhelms him. Retching. Bile. It burns. He heaves again. There is nothing in his stomach to vomit up. Icy fear clawing at him, tightening around his belly. Dorian shakes when he hears two sets of boots ringing across the stones towards him. Don’t move. It’s fighting back. Don’t move. Fingers twitch. No. Don’t. Can’t.

_Filthy whore. Maker, why are you so_ tight _? That ox not giving you enough? Is that why you’re so nasty, pretty little bitch? Here, I’ll make you feel better…_

He reaches for the laces on his shirt. He’s… Oh Maker, please, let it get over with soon. He won’t fight. He won’t fight. Please, Maker, let it end soon this time. Let it only be two soldiers.

Large hands. One with nubby fingers. The missing joints. Large, warm hands. Rough calluses. Thumbs circling his hands in a gentle grip. Dorian sobs. Maker. Please. Not Bull. Not Bull. Not him _too_.

“Up you go.” Gentle rumble. Gentle tugging on his hands. “Come on. There you go.” Dorian stands there on the battlements, quivering. Large arms encircle him. Please, not Bull. Please no, not him. Not him too. Please. Maker. Please, not Bull.

“I’m so sorry.”

Oh Maker. Cullen. Please, not him. Not Bull. Not either of them. Feet swinging into the air. He’s… Bull. Carrying. Like he’s a child. Dorian wails into Bull’s shoulder, hand wrapped around the strap of the Qunari’s pauldron. Please. Not here. Not Bull. Not Cullen. Please. Maker, please, let this nightmare _end._

Warmth. Warm. Wet. Water. A bath?

Dorian trembles as he is undressed and lowered into the water. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t open them. Remember the battlements. Don’t look. This dream won’t stop if you don’t look. Warm bath. Comforting. Bull’s mangled hands on his back. Shudder. Sob. Stifle the sob. Don’t make a noise, unless it’s… _thank you Ser._

Bull at his back, keeping guard, watching. Protection. Protective. Sigh. Relax. Gentleness. Gentled. Loved.

“Amatus?”

“I’m here, kadan.”

Dorian sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone regret asking for a sequel yet?


End file.
